


Gravestone

by thewinterspy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Corpses, Death, F/M, Gen, just gross dead stuff ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 14:37:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewinterspy/pseuds/thewinterspy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's figured it out by now - she's a grave too, like Sherlock. Whether that means she's a grave to someone else, or she's her own grave, she hasn't figured that out, but baby steps. So to speak.</p><p>"Sherlock? Are you there?" she asks, and the air goes silent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gravestone

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a very cracky conversation on the sherlolly chat with a simple prompt: Sherlock and Molly are gravestones. For the life of me, I do not know what has happened. But hopefully, you enjoy what I've done with it.

"It's a shame about Molly."

 

"What about Molly though?"

 

"The poor girl."

 

"Oh. You mean- yes, yes! Silly of me to forget. Oh, how could I? And to think-"

 

"She was so young."

 

"Such a shame."

 

 _Why,_ she wonders? What was so wrong? She stares at the people that walk past. A fair haired couple, an older woman, a man with salt hair, another with an umbrella. The one with an umbrella stays for the shortest amount of time, but stays long enough that it starts to rain around him, and he has to put the umbrella over his head. His mouth pinches and he walks away, and she thinks he looks awfully sad for someone trying so hard not to.

 

"I'm sorry," she calls after him, "If it's my fault, I'm sorry."

 

He keeps walking. When he disappears, another voice speaks up. Dazed, confused.

 

"... _Molly?_ "

 

She tries to turn her head, but when she does, it's the same view she had before. A row of gravestones in front of her, a building in the distance, and a big birch tree to her left. Just in the corner of her eye, she can see a rock beside her. She turns her head the other way - the same view.

 

"Yes? Who's there?"

 

There's a long pause, and she wonders if she'd imagined up the voice.

 

"Sherlock. That's what I say, at least."

 

"Oh. Are you..." she can't help but giggle, "Are you a ghost?"

 

"Ghost, what a stupid idea," Sherlock scoffs, "There's no such thing as ghosts. I'd be able to see you, wouldn't I? I just am."

 

"Or I'd be able to see you. Maybe you're just invisible," she offers, "Maybe you're a gravestone,"

 

"... I suppose I am, yes."

 

"Were you looking for someone?"

 

"Who?"

 

"You said Molly earlier,"

 

"... That's you. You're Molly,"

 

"Oh, am I really?" she asks, elated. She has a name! She's Molly! As far as names go, that one certainly wasn't a bad one. Sherlock doesn't speak for a while, and his voice comes soft to her.

 

"Yes. You are Molly,"

 

"Well then. Sherlock, right?"

 

"Yes."

 

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Sherlock."

 

* * *

 

 

The fair haired couple come back, with a bouquet of flowers and a little girl. She can hear a quiet gasp in her ear, and she wants to reach out. With what, she wonders. She's figured it out by now - she's a grave too, like Sherlock. Whether that means she's a grave to someone else, or she's her own grave, she hasn't figured _that_ out, but baby steps. She likes to think that they're here for her personally.

 

The little girl, with her bouncing curls and big brown eyes, moves forward, and hugs her. Molly smiles. She can hear Sherlock whispering something, but she can't make it out.

 

"Sherlock? Are you there?" she asks, and the air goes silent.

 

He doesn't reply at all, so she goes back to watching the couple. They don't smile when the little girl isn't looking. The couple look old. She wants to say 50s, but doesn't want to be mean, because they're probably not that old. Not that it matters, they can't tell she's staring at them - at least, she doesn't think they know she's staring back at them. Well, that's to be expected, she's a gravestone. The little girl steps away, and a feeling of dread hits her when she realizes the little girl was talking to her, and she wasn't paying attention.

 

"Come on now, we have to go to the hospital," the man says, and he touches the little girl's shoulder.

 

"Okay, Uncle John," she says, and she takes his hand. She waves goodbye, as the woman sets the flowers down in front of Molly. She touches the top of Molly, and smiles softly, before turning and leaving with the man - Uncle John - and the little girl.

 

"She seems sweet," Molly says.

 

Sherlock doesn't reply.

 

* * *

 

 

"Sherlock?" she asks softly, wanting company, even if it was a disembodied voice, "Are you there?"

 

There a moment of silence, then he answers, his whisper loud in the silence, "I am. Are you alright?"

 

"How long do you think we're going to be here?"

 

"Impossibly to say. Most likely until we wither away. Maybe even then. Maybe we are simply an atom,"

 

"Blimey," Molly murmurs, "I don't really like the idea of being so small. Why not large and... and..."

 

"Important?"

 

"Sure. Why not? Something important."

 

"An atom can be important, Molly. Something small is very, very important. Small events. They lead to something big. They always do,"

 

"Yeah... it would be nice to be a person. To walk around and stuff, how neat would that be?"

 

"Very neat,"

 

She giggles. The word sounds funny coming from her friend Sherlock. After a moment, a warm chuckle fills the air. His laugh is gorgeous, she thinks.

 

* * *

 

 

"Sherlock, are you there?"

 

"I am."

 

"Do you know any stories?"

 

"Any stories?"

 

"Yeah. Like... tales. Adventures!"

 

"I could tell you about crimes."

 

"Crimes?"

 

"Crimes. I know about crimes. Solved ones, that is. You'd be interested in that, yes?"

 

"Oh, please do! Ooh, how many do you know?"

 

"As many as you want to hear."

 

* * *

 

 

There are long periods of time when Molly thinks she sleeps. Either that, or she simply stops paying attention to anything at all, because sometimes, it'll be the light of day, and the next moment, she can see nothing but blackness. It's night now, and there's an owl hooting in the trees. It's - cold. It's freezing, actually. It was never so cold before. The poor bird, she thinks, hearing the owl hoot. She sees the shape of the bird flutter its wings out of the corner of her view, and then disappear into the trees.

 

"Sherlock?" she asks, "Sherlock, are you there?"

 

There's no reply, not even the call of the owl she'd been wondering about. Despite the chill, the breeze is not to be heard. Just a silence, weighing down the night. She gives a sigh... and breathes.

 

Oxygen is cold, she thinks. It slides down to her lungs, makes her realize how tight her throat really is. And just as she takes that first breath, it's gone as suddenly. And she realizes how badly she wants it back. She needs it, she needs- _needs to breathe!_

 

"Sher-" she chokes, the lump in her throat - _her throat, she has a throat_ , she realizes belatedly - clogging the words, but she tries anyways, calling for help, the only one who can, "Sher-lock!"

 

Her companion doesn't answer. Her hands grasp at her throat, and she coughs, eyes fluttering. There's flashes of bright lights, winking in and out of existence in front of her. It's too bright, blinding her from everything. The wind howls, screaming in her ears, and she cries out.

 

"Sherlock! Sherlock!"

 

Her hands hit dirt, the wet grass underneath her hands, and she coughs, hacking up the blood in her throat. It splatters on the ground, a sudden red patch. Her chest flares, her heart bursts and-

 

It's silent just as quickly as it's loud. She stays there, on her hands and knees in the dirt, shaking like a leaf. She coughed up blood. She takes a breath, then looks around. She's in the graveyard, still where she was before. Was she human now? She didn't understand, why was she shaking? She turns her head this way and that, before looking back down at the patch of blood. The ground, it... it's moving. Her eyebrows furrow, and she reaches out for the splatter. It starts to quiver, vibrating rapidly. Startled, she jerks away, and the dirt remains still.

 

She waits a moment.

 

Nothing happens.

 

She huffs, her breath pushing strands of dark hair into her face. Oh, she has hair. Well, that'll be nice to have, although it could be a bit of a bother.

 

A hand pushes it out of the way for her.

 

Molly freezes, and slowly turns her head.

 

A skull stares back at her, barely kept together by a thin layer of skin, holes gawking through. Its jaw hangs low, moving as if it were speaking. She screams, scrambling backwards, but her back hits a gravestone. The creature, draped in a long black robe, draws itself to full height to tower over her. She knows she needs to get help, to run away, but she's frozen in terror. The skeleton reaches for her, fingers of pale bone grazing along her face, when it suddenly grabs her throat, choking her shriek.

 

The ground beneath her quakes, and a dark shape rises from the earth. Moving quickly, the shadow swallows the monster whole. No, not swallowing, pushing, attacking, fighting it away. Molly watches on, as the creature dislodges itself from the dark figure, and with a sweep of its cloak, disappears into the shadows.

 

The shape that had just saved her life is nowhere to be seen.

 

* * *

 

 

Molly comes out from another long stretch of nothing to another day. The leaves have changed colours on the trees.

 

"Molly?" Sherlock asks, his voice clear in her mind, "Are you alright?"

 

"Sherlock?" she says, surprised to hear him, "Are you there? Are you r-really there?"

 

"Are you alright?" he says again, insistent.

 

"Y-Yes, I-I-I think so. Did you see-"

 

"You kept calling for me. Were you- having a nightmare?"

 

"I..." she thinks she ought to blink, but she can't. It's not possible, "I suppose I was. I didn't know we could have dreams,"

 

"You haven't spoken for so long. What happened?"

 

"I-I don't know. How long has it been?"

 

"... I can't tell. You missed winter,"

 

"What?" she says in disbelief, "But the leaves! Do you see them, they're red!"

 

"It was autumn. Then winter, spring, summer, and - well." Sherlock says, sounding bored if anything.

 

"No that's- an entire year? That's not possible! I can't stop paying attention for that long!"

 

"I'd thought..."

 

"What? Sherlock, what?"

 

"... That you had gone away."

 

Molly aches when she hears the soft way Sherlock's voice get.

 

"Trust me Sherlock, I won't ever leave you alone."

 

"Good. That's good."

 

Sherlock's voice catches, and she wonders if he's lying.

 

* * *

 

 

"Sherlock? Are you there?"

 

"I am."

 

"Hey. Did you... did you catch the game last night?"

 

"... What."

 

"There was a football game, don't know if you saw it but-"

 

"I can't see anything but graves, Molly."

 

"That's the joke! We can't see anything!"

 

"Molly, don't tell jokes."

 

"... Right."

 

* * *

 

 

The next time she encounters night, the leaves are green again, and she can hear a party. By the building in the distance, there's a bonfire, and she can make out shapes dancing around it. A bunch of teenagers having a laugh, then. Funny.

 

"Sherlock, are you there? Do you see that there? I don't know if you can, but-"

 

"I can see it."

 

"I wish we could go over," she says wistfully, which earns her a scoff.

 

"We can't Molly, we're-"

 

"Right, right. We're just a pair of rocks. I wish you'd lighten up sometimes, you know,"

 

"It's the truth,"

 

"It's fun to use your imagination. I mean, it's all we've got really, might as well make the best of it."

 

Sherlock goes quiet, and Molly watches the fire last through the night. Just as it starts to grow small, and the dawn begins to colour the sky an inky purple, Sherlock speaks up.

 

"Paris,"

 

"Hm?"

 

"Paris, France. I don't know what it looks like any more."

 

"Any more? You've been there?"

 

"A part of me remains there."

 

"Do you want to go to Paris? Is that what you're saying?"

 

"I suppose so, yes."

 

"Maybe you'll dream about it. When you stop paying attention,"

 

"... Perhaps."

 

* * *

 

 

"Sherlock, are you there?"

 

"Mmm,"

 

"I Spy with my little eye, something that is green."

 

"The grass," he replies with a dead tone to his voice.

 

"More specifically,"

 

"What?"

 

"Which part of the grass,"

 

"You are referring to a specific blade of grass,"

 

"Yes. I counted how far away it is from me. I'll give you a hint. There are 437 rows of blades of grass in front of me. It's all very well placed,"

 

"Is it in the first row?"

 

"No."

 

"The second."

 

"No."

 

"The third?"

 

"Nuh-uh."

 

"Why am I playing this game?"

 

"Well I figure, we've got a while, why not?"

 

"... Fair enough. Is it the fourth?"

 

* * *

 

 

They're still playing when dusk settles into night, and two figures come along the row of gravestones that lead to Molly. She watches them curiously, answering no to Sherlock as he goes on.

 

"Is it the two hundred and forty-fourth?"

 

"No, no it isn't," she mumbles, watching as the figures trudge right along up to her. Two men, tall and intimidating, one who carried a duffel bag with him.

 

"C'mon, let's just hurry. Caretaker won't take too long with the dogs," one mutters, his voice rough like gravel.

 

"You've got the bloody bag, Warrick!" the other snaps, snatching at the bag and tugging it towards him.

 

Sherlock says cautiously, "Molly?"

 

"Yeah?" she answers, her voice quiet as to not disturb the two men. _But why did it matter?_  She asks herself. Wasn't like they could hear her anyways.

 

"You need to leave," Sherlock warns her.

 

"What? I can't exactly do that, can I?"

 

"You can. You can and you will. Get up Molly, go back!"

 

The man pulls out a large hammer from the bag, and tests its weight in his hands. Dread fills Molly. They want to smash her. They're going to smash her to bits.

 

"Molly, get up!"

 

"I can't move," she whispers over Sherlock's shouting, _"I can't move."_

 

"You can Molly, you can. Believe me, you can. I can't, but you can, just get up. Go back,"

 

The second man grabs a can of paint from the bag, and smirks at his accomplice, "See how that Big Brother likes this, eh?"

 

"Yeah yeah, just give me some space here," the other grunts, and swings the sledgehammer back.

 

 ** _"Wake up, Molly!"_** Sherlock yells.

 

She covers her eyes with her hands and curls up, waiting for impact. The wind howls, and the earth shakes. There's a cry of horror from the two men, and Molly looks up again... and screams.

 

While one man runs away, the other is caught under a creature of nightmares. The creature is nothing but bones, but as she watches, she can see the muscles regrouping, skin breaking and regrowing as the body tissue does. The creature has its hand, still rebuilding as it tightens its grip around the man's throat. The man barely has air to scream, as he claws at the hand grabbing him, but it's futile. As he grows weaker, the monster gets stronger.

 

"NO!" she screams, scrabbling forwards, "No, stop it!"

 

The creature turns to her, and she freezes, mouth open to scream, but the sound catches in her throat. Two empty sockets stare back at her, a gaping hole that appeared to be a mouth. Her throat closes, and opens again. She has to brave, she has to be.

 

"Let go of him. Don't kill him," she tells the creature.

 

The thing turns its head back to the man, his breath choking out. Hairs start grow on top of the monster's head, as it releases its hold. The man gulps down air, scrambling away. He doesn't have enough energy to crawl, but the further he gets away from the monster, the more strength he seems to get. Eventually, he gets to his feet and runs away.

 

The creature still grows, pale, pink flesh slapping over muscles and tendons, until it raises its head again, looking at Molly. She gasps, scrabbling back. Slowly, the mouth moves. A groaning noise, like nails on a chalkboard, comes out of it.

 

"Mmmmmmuh," it tries.

 

"M-Muh? Mun?" she repeats, still shaking as the creature forms in front of her. Arms become pronounced, as do legs, legs that are moving closer to her. It reaches out its hand, knuckles form perfectly, ending in pointed bone fingers. She closes her eyes, turning her head away... and a pair of warm fingertips touch her cheek. She opens one eye, and sees two small orbs where the eye sockets once were. A pair of pale irises seeking out her gaze.

 

"Mmmmmmoll-"

 

There's a loud crack, and the creature's left leg gives out. Like sludge, the skin slides away, and the thing peels away before her very eyes. It crumples into itself, until it's nothing but bones, and drops into the earth, sliding right through the earth as if it were water.

 

The air is still. Molly heaves for air, having stopped her breath from the terror of her experience, and starts to cry.

 

And when she starts paying attention again, it's day time, and Sherlock's still counting blades of grass.

 

* * *

 

 

There's a woman walking down the row of gravestones towards Molly. She could be no older than 25, still so young. She has dark ringlets that frame her small face, and big brown eyes. In her hands, a bouquet of flowers. She stops right in front of Molly, and kneels in front of her. She stares, and stares, and when she opens her mouth, Molly is flabberghasted.

 

"Mum's going away now, Dad. The doctors, they said.... she's.... You'll get to see her again."

 

The woman lies the flowers down in front of Molly, her gaze steady and strong. Molly could have sworn those strong eyes were looking right at her.

 

"I love you," the woman says, her voice strong. Forced, Molly realizes, and ache hits her like the wind hitting her. The woman repeats it, "I love you," and her voice crumbles, like stone weathering away against lapping waves. Molly wants to reach out, to touch the woman's hand, to hold her close and tell her everything will be alright. But she can only watch as the woman's lip quivers, and she hides her face in her hands.

 

Molly makes a hushing noise, and murmurs, "Darling, it's alright. Darling, don't cry."

 

An balding man with a cane comes to collect the girl, and tells her, "It's alright, let's go see your mum now."

 

The woman nods, and curls into the older man's embrace. They shuffle off down the row together.

 

* * *

 

 

When Molly finally speaks, her voice is firm.

 

"Sherlock. I know you're there."

 

It's silent. Not even the wind blows. Molly growls, and tries again.

 

"Sherlock, I know you are there! What was that?"

 

"What was what?" the voice says, snapping back.

 

"That woman calling me _Dad_? What was that all about?"

 

"How should I know, I can't see you!"

 

"You know, I know you do! It's... that was the same girl, wasn't it?"

 

"I don't understand."

 

"Don't SAY that!" she yells. She doesn't know why she's so mad, but rage fills her, from head to toe, and she has _toes_ , and she has a _head_ , and she doesn't understand why. Sherlock doesn't know what confusion is like, he doesn't know what it's like to be afraid of the unknown, because he's Sherlock and he knows everything. That's it. He knows everything. He knows everything, and he won't tell her. She takes a deep breath, and speaks.

 

"The first time I paid attention, there was a little girl. She must have grown up. And she was that woman that came to see me. And I'm- Dad apparently? Who is she? Is she-"

 

"I keep telling you," he cuts her off.

 

"Telling me what?" Molly says, incredulous.

 

"I keep telling you. I keep... _begging_ you to hear me, but you never do. You don't pay enough attention. You just don't listen! You never listen, you only..." Sherlock sighs.

 

"I only... what, Sherlock?"

 

"See. You only ever see. And you've been blinded. For twenty years, you've been blinded,"

 

Molly frowns, and blinks quickly. Lights flare behind her eyelids, and when she opens her eyes again, it's dark.

 

Night time.

 

"Molly, listen, pay attention, _pay attention this time_ , please!" Sherlock begs her, sounding... wrecked. So utterly wrecked, that it breaks her heart. She can feel it, like a knife to her heart.

 

"I'm here, Sherlock."

 

"You need to pay attention this time, Molly. Please. You need to let go. You need to let go," he tells her, warns her, and she doesn't understand.

 

"Why? Sherlock? Sherlock, are you there?"

 

"NO, don't!" he all but screams, and the ground shakes. Molly nearly trips over her feet, and manages to catch her balance on something behind her. She turns, and stares down at a gravestone. Her. It's _her_ , she realizes.

 

"Why am I staring at myself?" she asks.

 

"You're not staring at yourself, that's not you. Don't you understand? You're not a gravestone, Molly. You're not dead, Molly. You are _alive_ , so ever alive, and you need to let go."

 

"Alive? I don't-"

 

"You're asleep, Molly. You're lying in a hospital bed, in the middle of London, and you won't wake up. You haven't woken up for twenty years, because you won't let go of me."

 

"You're... a gravestone," she says.

 

"That's idiotic," Sherlock scolds her, and she bristles.

 

"Well, then, what, what are you?"

 

Silence hangs, and Sherlock sounds so broken.

 

"Nothing I do will make you remember, will it?"

 

Molly stares at the gravestone, the only source of companionship she's had for... twenty years. She stares and stares at the golden words looking back up at her. She stares and **_SHERLOCK HOLMES_** burns itself into her mind.

 

"They captured you. A drug ring, they captured you, and used you as bait for me. They told me, no back up, no weapons. Me for you. I thought I could be clever, I thought I could take them on. But there were too many, and they- they hit you, attacked you, and I..."

 

"... Sh-Sherlock?"

 

"And they shot me."

 

Molly's chest caves in like she'd been hit, and her breath comes out staggered.

 

"Oh _god._ "

 

"You lived though, Molly. You lived, but you... you followed me to this miserable place. But you need to live. Molly, you need to live,"

 

"Who am I?" she asks, her voice quiet. She sinks to her knees, one hand clutching the top of Sherlock Holmes' grave as the other traces the letters of his name, "Oh, who am I, Sherlock?"

 

Sherlock doesn't answer for a long time, but when he does, she gasps and curls into herself, forehead touching the grave's smooth surface.

 

"You're Molly Hooper. You're a daughter, a mother, and my wife. I'm yours, Molly, I am yours, even now when I couldn't save you."

 

"The woman - that little girl-" she chokes out, and she realizes she's crying. The ground rumbles underneath her, but she doesn't turn around, can't bear to look. She knows, oh god she _knows_. She remembers.

 

Coffee in the lab, the smell of it overwhelming the scent of chemicals that the hospital produced. Fingers brushing hers, brushing past her cheek, a kind smile that tastes wonderful as it looks (because it took so long to receive it), skin touching skin, hands brushing skin. And _Paris,_ Paris, France, where he knelt on one knee in front of an entire mafia, the  _idiot_. Her lovely idiot, who promised her that they'd always return to France, to the memories left behind, the parts of them that would always return. The weight of a ring on her finger, the way she used to worry it'd slip off when she washed dishes, but it fits so perfectly, just like them, and she never remembers wanting to be happy because she just was. It fits so perfectly, like a baby in her arms, with soft tuft of black hair, and big brown eyes that reflect her own. She calls her Lucy, because Lucinda's an awfully poor name for a kid to have in the classroom, but Lucy is so perfect. Nursery rhymes and diaper changes. Oh god, diaper changes, his first time changing the baby's diaper, she took a photo because it was so damn priceless. Phones in hands. Seeing his name on her phone and when he misses her, sometimes he doesn't reply for so long, long enough that she has to ask _"Sherlock? Are you there?"_ and he tells her is, and she tells him she loves him and oh god, all this time, twenty years and she forgot to tell him she loves him, she forgot, she forgot him. She forgot a dark warehouse, with car lights winking in and out of existence, and even when she closed her eyes she could feel the light flaring behind her eyelids too. And Sherlock, Sherlock ever the knight in shining armour, he looked so sad, she wanted to call to him, reach out for him, hold him, "Sherlock-!" and everything moves too fast, and there's pain in her chest and in her shoulder and in her leg and in her head, oh god her head, her skull is on fire, she's going to die, she's going to die, "Sherlock!" and she can't hear what he says for a long time, even when his fingers are on her pulse and he asks, "Are you there? Molly, are you there?" and she's going to tell him she is, and that she loves him, but he freezes, and collapses, and he isn't moving, why isn't he moving, and there's a man with a gun that she doesn't remember but it doesn't matter, because she knows he's dead and she knows she killed him.

 

Five bones curl around her shoulder, and she lets out a sharp gasp of air.

 

"Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmuh." the voice behind her says.

 

"I forgot," she murmurs numbly, "I forgot about you, I forgot about- about Lucy. I forgot about John, and Mary, and Mycroft, and-"

 

"Mmmmmmmmmmm-"

 

"I killed a man. I killed a man and I still couldn't save you."

 

"Mmmmmmmmmmmmmoll-"

 

"I couldn't save you!" she shouts, and she turns around.

 

The creature that saved her stares back with empty eye sockets, muscles and tendons and ligaments looping around arms and legs and torso and neck and face and-

 

"Oh god it's you," Molly says, realizing, "It's _you_."

 

She reaches out to touch him, but the monster shrinks back, trying to mumble words again and again. Its hand drops to its side. Fresh skin slaps over the last fresh row, only to disintegrate and rebuild again. Short hairs, tufts of patchy dark hair, grow on its head, then shed, falling to the ground and sinking into the earth as if it were water. Molly watches as the creature touches its own stomach, organs barely held in the same place by skin. It looks like a slab of meat that ought to be on one of her tables.

 

"Sherlock," she whispers. He whimpers, and the noise is pitiful coming from him. Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, nothing but a... a corpse. No, not a corpse. Something... more. She holds out her hand, but he shuffles back on his toes and knuckles, like an ape. She pauses, hand frozen in the air, and then lunges towards him, hand grabbing at his half formed arm, damn the wave of nausea that sweeps over her own stomach. At her touch, a shoulder of his forms, clear and vibrant, and entirely the shape of human flesh. She gasps, her vision spotting for a moment, and he takes the opportunity to pull himself away, his shoulder degenerating, then growing back.

 

She takes a deep breath, staring at Sherlock's disfigured appearance. With an exhale, Molly slumps back and sits on her bum. What had just... happened. All of it. It was a bit to process. But in particular, the moment that had just occurred, it reminded her all too well of the men with the sledgehammer, the man that had wanted to destroy her... well, not her. Sherlock's grave, he had wanted to destroy Sherlock's grave. But then that monster- Sherlock- stopped him. He grew stronger... from...

 

"Oh my god," Molly says, and Sherlock turns his head as if he were looking at her. Could he see her at all, she wonders. He must have, to shy away from her hand. Still, she reaches out once more, carefully touching her fingers to the cheekbone that peeked out of the thin layer of skin over his skull. Flesh blossomed underneath her fingertips, pale skin, warm skin, muscles that were hidden flexing and relaxing as his jaw relaxes as he sighs, tilting his head into the palm of her hand. His face comes to life, his nose sprouting like a sped-up vegetable, and she can't help but giggle. Eyelids form, closing over a pair of half-made eyes.When the lids open, she sees the face she fell in love with, and those gorgeous pale eyes that she knew had so much emotion in them.

 

"Sherlock," she murmurs.

 

He stares at her, head tilted up and mouth tipped open, like he can't believe his luck to see an angel. His hand, still putting itself together, closes around her wrist, and it finishes off its own work. His palm is rough and calloused, the way they've always been.

 

"You have to let go of me, Molly," he warns her, but there's barely any threat behind his caution. He looks like he wants to let go of her just as much as she wants to let go of him. She cups his other cheek with her free hand, and smiles.

 

"I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock."

 

"What happened last time - with the man that was going to hurt you-"

 

"You were taking his energy. I know, I know Sherlock. It's fine," she assures him. She smiles as his hair grows long enough to fall over his eyes, and she brushes it gently out of the way for him.

 

"No, no it's not, Molly, you have to live-" Sherlock tightens his grip on her wrist, and looks ready to push her away again, but she shakes her head.

 

"You heard Lucy. _'Mum's going away now._ ' Our family, they’ll be able to say goodbye to me, but I don't plan on saying goodbye to you. You've been waiting for me all this time, I won't make you wait any longer. And even if you have to wait, I won't make you wait alone," Molly insists, her hands shaking as she mentions her daughter. Her daughter, her little baby in her arms, barely five when both her parents were torn away. She hopes John and Mary were good for her little girl. She hopes Lucy's good for them. It wouldn't be fair to go back, not now, she tells herself.

 

Sherlock says her name, touching her cheek. She sighs, tilting her head into his touch. Somewhere, in the middle of London, she’s lying in a hospital bed as doctors rush about her, trying to bring back the life that was so willingly slipping away. It doesn’t matter. She’s made up her mind.

 

“You protected me for twenty years. Took care of me. It’s okay, Sherlock. I want to stay with you.”

 

“It’s different than life,” he warns her, “There’s nothing that can stop us when we promise forever, Molly,”

 

She places a hand on the back of his neck, and pulls him forward to press her forehead against his.

 

“Good,” she says, and gives him a smile, “That’s what I’m counting on,”

 

* * *

 

 

The funeral is quiet, Lucy Holmes notices as she surveys the gathering. Well, quiet compared the last funeral she went to. But it’d been Daddy’s wake, and about five criminals trying to have one last go on the Holmes family. On her. She’s the only one left.

 

Aunt Mary - _god bless her_ \- is slowly making the crowd of people around the grave filter away, to give Lucy some time alone. Soon, there’s no one but close family. Uncle Mycroft taps his umbrella on the ground carefully, offers her a thin smile, and turns to disappear into a car. Uncle John and Aunt Mary stand a bit away, leaving Lucy alone with Lestrade. The D.I shuffles his feet, and sighs. He looks ten years older than he already is, and it makes her chest ache to see him so tired. He hugs her from the side, an arm looped around her shoulders.

 

“She loved you very much,” her uncle says, and she nods. Courtesy. When someone acknowledges your dead mother, you nod and say thank you, but she can’t bring herself to say anything about Mum. She can’t talk about how she spent her entire life visiting a pale body in a hospital every weekend. She can’t talk about how no one could break the ice with her by asking about her parents because my parents are dead, and even though Mum was never dead, she might as well have been. But she can’t talk about how she had faint memories of the smell of Mum’s coffee, and the way Dad would hug her a little tighter, a little longer after a case that upset him. She can’t talk about how she knows she reminds her family about them so much, and it makes her feel horrible. She can’t talk about how she sees everything, and she can’t talk about how sad it makes her feel that no one knows the feeling. Numbly, she draws herself out of getting near any of those trains of thought and asks.

 

“There wouldn’t happen to be that position still at the Yard?”

 

Lestrade turns his head to her, surprised, “Lucy, kid, are you sure you-”

 

“Yeah. I’ll take you up on it.” She kisses his cheek, and tells him, “We can lunch tomorrow and talk about it.”

 

“If you’re sure…”

 

“I am. Can you give me a mo’ with my Mum? I’ll be quick,” she promises, and Lestrade reluctantly leaves her be, shuffling back towards Uncle John and Aunt Mary. The three of them murmur amongst each other, before disappearing towards the entrance gate of the graveyard.

 

Lucy sighs, and sits down in the grass. Cross legged, she puts her elbow on her knee and rests her chin on her fist. She reads the golden letters of the new gravestone aloud, because she can, “Molly Hooper.”

 

She switches arms, and reads the name on the other, much older grave, “Sherlock Holmes.”

 

After a moment, she tuts, “Funerals. Always a miserable experience, eh? I was _dying_ of boredom,”

 

The woman giggles, knowing that she’d look like a maniac to anyone standing around.

 

“Sorry, sorry,” she says to the tombstones, “I shouldn’t joke. It really is a _grave_ situation,”

 

She bites her lip, and shakes her head. She’d officially lost it. Blinking sharply, she looks up at the sky to stop the tears from coming. She’s tired of crying, and she doesn’t want to do it now, not when she’d gotten through the funeral with dry eyes. She rubs her arms as the wind whistles, shivering. As she lets out a quiet _brr_ , the wind stops immediately. She wants to stay next to her parents for a little longer, but logic wins. She’d freeze up in her little black dress. Reluctantly, she gets to her feet, and reaches out to touch both hands to her parents’ graves.

 

“Take care of each other… wherever you are. I hope you’re happy,” her lip wobbles, but she keeps her eyes dry, “I love you.”

 

Lucy waits a moment, biting her lip to keep her composure, and then turns away. She takes a few steps, just as the wind sweeps the skirt of her dress forwards, as if pushing her onwards, out of the graveyard, onto the next chapter of her life. She would have followed the breeze, if not for the sound of quiet bickering behind her.

 

“-Wherever we are? What on earth does that mean? Did we make a deal with the devil? Are we casual residents of Hell?”

 

“It’s a normal thing to say, Sherlock!”

 

“ _I’ve_ done absolutely nothing to deserve Hell,”

 

Slowly, the woman looks over her shoulder, and sees a couple perched on the gravestones as if they were seats. There’s a woman, with her long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, sitting with her legs crossed and her hands supporting her on the grave. The man, leaning lazily on Sherlock Holmes’ grave, was gesturing grandly with his free hand. As Lucy watches, the woman scoffs.

 

“Oh ho, absolutely nothing he says.”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean!?”

 

“I don’t know, you’re the consulting detective, why don’t you deduce it?”

 

“Mum? Dad?” Lucy murmurs, squinting her eyes. Despite the low volume of her voice, the couple immediately perk up, noticing her watching them. The woman gets to her feet, taking a few steps forward, but she’s stopped by the man’s hand taking her wrist. Slowly, he stands up straight, and puts his other hand on his companion’s shoulder. Lucy notices the glint of a ring on his finger, reflecting in the sunlight. A wedding ring.

 

“Lucy darling,” the woman says, sounding as astonished as Lucy feels. Before she can respond at all, the man says.

 

“On you go, Lucy. We’ll wait for you.”

 

“But-”

 

“Lucy?”

 

She whirls around, and finds Uncle John waiting for her. He frowns at the sight of her, and calls again, “Lucy? Are you alright? Look as if you’ve seen a ghost,”

 

Confused, Lucy turns back, and her parents are gone. Mouth opening and closing without words, she turns back around. Slowly, she walks towards her caretaker. The old man wordlessly opens his arm for her to move into his embrace, and she does so naturally.

 

“No ghost,” she assures him, “Just a pair of gravestones,”

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to take the opportunity to thank my supportive friends, who always stick by my side, even when I come out with the most ridiculous stories.
> 
> Sam: so i'm writing a gravestone au  
> Anna: ......... Sherlock is gonna be a rock?  
> Anna: You could make him THE Rock  
> Sam: its a really grave story anna please take it seriously  
> Callie: stone cold right there  
> Anna: It sounds like you're gonna have a rocky start  
> Cathica: gee way to hit rock bottom  
> Callie: she's going from the ground up  
> Cathica: well it's a "rocky" mistake ....I'll show myself out  
> Anna: Maybe you should resurrect another idea  
> Sam: i like to think that i can bring life to this one  
> Cathica: yeah I'll have to really dig for something  
> Sam: i'm trying to write it as light-hearted, to try and keep my audience from dying of boredom, y'know?  
> Callie: you'll shovel through it.  
> Anna: No you may get a vampire  
> Anna: And then you'll be caught between a rock and a hard place  
> Cathica: I can't believe we are doing puns, I'm gonna go bury myself somewhere.


End file.
